The Personality Complex
by Rome Antique
Summary: Sherlock Holmes can't be dead. He isn't real.


"John, you need to say it."

"I... I can't," John replied softly to his therapist. He had known her since he came back from Afghanistan with the psychosomatic limp. The limp had come back since the event that took place just last week. It happened gradually, and John could feel it coming on much to his dismay.

His therapist sighed. They had been at it for twenty minutes, just trying to get John to admit it- to her and to himself.

"John," she repeated calmly but obviously annoyed.

"Yes, alright," John muttered in response. "My friend... Sherlock Holmes... Is dead. There, I said it."

The therapist raised her pen to her lips in deep contemplation. Then, she took the pen away to speak. She took a deep breath in.

"John," she began, "you are Sherlock."

* * *

**Six Months Earlier**

Even though he had left Afghanistan a few weeks before, the thoughts of battle still lingered in his mind and in his dreams. He had spent a week in hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder as well as a limp in his leg. The doctors did not believe that the two were related and thus he was forced to see a therapist.

His name was Dr. John H. Watson, a surgeon for the British Army. Even though he was only a doctor, he had his bad days and his last day in Afghanistan was probably the worst of all. John returned to the London life a week afterward hoping to get a flat even though he believed he would not make a very good flatmate.

"John!"

John was startled out of his daze and he suddenly remembered where he was. Walking through the park. Right. Yes. John looked before him and saw an aging man walking towards him. He wondered if he knew the man and how the man knew him.

"Yes?" John asked curiously.

"It's me! Mike Stamford. We went to Bart's together."

"Oh! Yes, of course," John replied suddenly remembering. Quite the time it was, too. He remembered when him and Mike would go to the coffee shop specifically at three o'clock on Tuesdays just to see that beautiful barista. had both tried to woo her but to no avail. Besides, it was all in good fun anyway. John couldn't remember much about med school itself but he remembered Mike Stamford.

"What have you been up to? Last I heard you overseas being shot at. So, what happened?" Mike asked with genuine curiosity.

John shrugged, "I got shot."

After their exchange they had both decided to go for coffee and sit down in the park to chat. Mike told John all about his years after they had left St. Bart's and parted ways. Mike continued work as a teacher at the school and John told him all about Afghanistan and how beautiful it could be at times, especially at night when you could see a million more stars than in the city. Then the topic turned to the present.

"What about you? Just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked casually.

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know. You could get a flat share or something."

"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" John replied. It provoked an unusual look in Mike's face and so John added, "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike explained.

"Who's the first?"

* * *

John looked intensely at the therapist before him.

"I remember that. I remember that happening. Meeting Sherlock. I was introduced by Mike Stamford."

The therapist sighed. "John. You went to Bart's alone. I talked to Mike Stamford, he didn't introduce you to anyone. He did talk to you about a person, but it was not Sherlock Holmes."

"You're lying," John replied softly in protest. "I remember everything that happened."

"Why don't you come back tomorrow and we can talk about your leg?"

"I don't want to talk about my leg. I don't want to talk to you."

And with that, John stood up and walked out of the room.

* * *

Mike Stamford took John to St. Bart's immediately following their conversation in the park in complete and total eagerness. He could not wait to see the two stubborn men meet and watch how they interacted. Once there, he watched Sherlock show off to John with a smile on his face and then laughed at the look on John's when Sherlock left the room.

Afterward, John went to the address which was given to him, 221b Baker Street. He stood outside the door and looked at the building's surroundings. A cafe was placed right next to the flat and John thought it didn't look too bad either. The street looked to be a nice residential area. John knocked on the door of the flat and didn't even have to wait a minute for a taxi to pull up to the curb. Sherlock paid the cabbie and opened the door of the flat with a kind greeting to John.

The flat was a decent size but didn't seem too spacious due to the amount of objects that cluttered it. Books, forensics equipment, chemicals, decorations, and even a human skull. Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, seem nice enough to John and he thought that he could probably get along very well here.

Then suddenly came footsteps from the stairs and a man in a suit with short salt-and-pepper hair ran in hurriedly. He told Sherlock about a suicide. John figured it was about the suicides that had been in the papers but he was confused as to what that had to do with his future flatmate. Sherlock told the man, who appeared to be named Lestrade, that he would meet him at the crime scene. After Lestrade had left, Sherlock let his true feelings show.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note. It's Christmas!"

Sherlock had gone out the door and Mrs. Hudson offered to make tea while John sat a rested his leg but it wasn't long before Sherlock came back. He made an offer that John was not sure if he could refuse.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Well... Yes."

"Bit of trouble too I bet."

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh, god, yes."

* * *

John took a cab back to his flat after leaving the therapist high and dry. It was a wet and rainy Thursday. The cab stopped and upon arriving at his destination, however, he realized he had given the wrong address. He was back at 221b Baker Street. He had not been back to that flat since Sherlock had died and didn't plan on returning either. But in his post-adrenaline daze (which he received from walking out on the therapist) he must have given that address instead of his new one. Mrs. Hudson had not rented the flat back out yet and John was tempted to just take a look. One last look.

After a moment of simply sitting in the cab staring out the window at the shiny 221b on the green door, John finally decided to get out of the cab and go in. He paid the cabbie and watched him drive away before walking up to the familiar door. He reached out his hand to turn the doorknob and found that the door was locked. It probably should not have surprised him but in that moment it did. It was a startling revelation that 221b was no longer a part of his life and neither was the man that lived within it. John felt his chest make that oh-so-familiar feeling that usually happens when one experiences heartbreak. A dropping feeling right where the vital organ is located.

His hand dropped from the knob and he stared in the rain at the glistening 221b, at a total loss for words.

* * *

John finally had things to put in his blog and he was more than happy to write them down. He enjoyed giving his stories clever titles such as "A Study in Pink" and "The Blink Banker." He received many comments on his blog telling him how great he was a writer and how much they loved Sherlock. He loved seeing people becoming fans of who he and Sherlock were even if there was some odd art and comments to go with it. It was flattering to John but Sherlock didn't seem to care, at least not on the outside.

It wasn't long before Sherlock went from internet sensation to local celebrity, being featured in Britain's newspapers and all. He tried to hide himself from the cameras using a hat he found but appeared to have just made the hat famous instead.

Yes, Sherlock _was_ famous. That was until they met Moriarty. He appeared to amuse Sherlock in some sick, twisted sort of way. Two geniuses, one criminal and the other investigator. They could have amused each other for years. John wished that they had of. He supposed it must have been a Harry Potter type thing. Neither can live while the other survives. Moriarty _had_ to end Sherlock. No. He had to _destroy_ Sherlock. And that's just what he did. "Suicide of Fake Genius."

Then suddenly John had nothing to write about anymore.

* * *

"Let's go over it again."

"I don't want to be here."

John swore he would never go back to the therapist. And he didn't. However, the court had ordered him to see another therapist. No, not quite a therapist. Psychiatrist. He was in therapy for his leg. But this time it wasn't about his leg.

A police officer stood by the door to make sure John didn't try to escape again. This was his third time talking to Dr. O'Hara. He was sick of repeating himself.

"You know all of it already."

The psychiatrist crossed her left leg over her right and leaned forward.

"Okay. You don't have to say it again. But I want you to explain it."

John glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"What was Sherlock like? His behavior, his interests."

"You don't think he was real. Don't act like you do."

* * *

Physically, Sherlock was a tall, handsome, thirty-something with brilliant eyes, curls, and a stunning figure to match. When you saw him, you knew he was more than just a man. He dressed like he meant business and spoke just as formally. Thin, but athletic. Likely muscled, underneath it all. Underneath it all, he had a personality like none other.

His mind was sharp as a razor; cunning. Passionate, enthused, clever, and alive. So alive. He used every moment of his life. Even when bored he would be ridiculously full of life, shooting walls and whatnot. Every word he spoke was spoken with fervor and every action he took was done with utmost intensity. Everything he did was intense, whether it was investing a crime scene or looking through a microscope for evidence.

However, nothing was more intense than his deductions. The way he would dictate his observations so clearly and so quickly. He would list them off and as he was doing so you would be looking around trying to find where he was getting them from. One would think that he was just pulling them out of his ass (as John and Lestrade often thought he did) but then he would tell you how he came to his conclusions and one would wonder why they didn't see it before. He was simply the best there was when it came to observation. After all, the police did not consult amateurs.

* * *

"I see," mutter the psychiatrist as she wrote something down in her notepad.

"What now?" John asked as he attempted to look over at the doctor's notes.

The doctor looked up at John and replied, "No, I don't think he is real. I think he is a part of you. The other part of you, the one you wish to be. Young and full of life. After you came back from Afghanistan boredom began to overtake you and you started to feel your age creeping up on you. You were used to being noticed and relied on. This came out in Sherlock who was looked to for answers. Sherlock was relied on for his deductions. He became famous for them. Famous as you should have been for your service to Britain. You described him as alive. You wanted to feel alive again as you did in the war. You were beginning to feel useless again."

John looked at the doctor in front of him waiting for her to continue as she paused. She sighed deeply and set down the notepad next to her.

"You've been experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. You have all the symptoms. You were involved in a war, you were having flashbacks and distressing dreams. I spoke to your therapist. You were experiencing avoidance as well, before Sherlock. Avoiding people, places, things. You created Sherlock as a diversion, a way out. A way to avoid unwanted memories. You had a psychosomatic limp which went away when you 'met' Sherlock and it's come back now that he's gone."

John exhaled deeply. "Alright, then. If I created him, why did I get rid of him?"

* * *

Moriarty had bested Sherlock. But who was Moriarty? Just as cunning as Sherlock as just as bored. A spider. But what did that make Sherlock? Moriarty poisoned him and sucked out all his life. Sherlock became prey. Even though Moriarty was brought down as well, Sherlock was taken with him.

Moriarty. It angered John to even think of him. That Cheshire Cat grin. Despicable, mischievous. Seemingly appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast. Able to create entire scenarios with a snap of his fingers or the press of a button. He had people, so many people. So many connections, which made bringing down Sherlock even easier.

He shared many traits with Sherlock. Clever, genius, bored. John knew the answer to the question "what do geniuses do when they're bored?" now. They don't do calculus, they don't study the science of baking. Oh, how John wished he never knew the answer to that question.

How did he get caught up in this in the first place?

* * *

"You're going to tell me Moriarty isn't real."

The psychiatrist nodded. "Yes, I am."

John nodded in response. "How?"

"Well," she inhaled deeply before beginning, "Moriarty is reality. Just as Sherlock was imagination. Reality is harsh and cruel, able to ruin the best things in life at the press of a button. Things change quickly for no reason. That's life. And that's Moriarty. You said Sherlock and Moriarty were very similar. As are imagination and reality. But there is one defining difference. One is easy to swallow while the other is not. We make up things to escape reality, all of us. Stories, books, television, movies. You made up a man. But it needed to end and you knew that, subconsciously. So, you made Moriarty as well. And, he was killed, too. It's all over. You can accept what actually happened now. You can move on from Afghanistan, you can connect with the people you love again. You can live your life now."

There was a moment of silence. John thought it over. This was reality. There was no Sherlock or Moriarty. Reality was living without Sherlock.

"I think I prefer imagination."

John exhaled audibly.

"I think I preferred living with Sherlock."

* * *

**Two months later**

John sat on the bench at the park, the same one that Mike Stamford never mentioned Sherlock Holmes on. He thought about 221b Baker Street and how he never lived there with Sherlock Holmes. He thought about Lestrade who never knew Sherlock Holmes, crime scenes that were never deduced by Sherlock Holmes, violins that were never played by Sherlock Holmes, and memories that never actually included Sherlock Holmes.

A part of John felt like he was experiencing actual loss and actual grief because of it. No one died but it felt like some one did and that was enough to make John feel the way he did. Sometimes he would see something on the telly and think "Sherlock would like that" and then get really sad of a sudden. And, yes, that was a symptom of loss but how can a person experience loss if no one actually died?

It kept him up at night, knowing that nothing he knew was real. He dreamed of a tall, thin man with dark, curly hair. He called him Sherlock but knew it couldn't be because John made him up and that was that. The psychiatrist told John that he must have seen a man with Sherlock's likeness once in order to make him up or dream him. It is impossible to dream of a person you have never seen before. Even if you see a person briefly, only for a second, you can dream of them and think them a stranger. A person you passed on the street once, a store clerk, a waitress, anyone. That is what the psychiatrist said at least and that is what John believed.

He sat there in the park everyday hoping to see the man again. The one that inspired Sherlock Holmes. The tall, thin man with dark, curly hair. He figured he saw him in the park because that is where John created him. When he first heard the name. From Mike Stamford, who never really said it.

Everyday he sat there in the park looking at every single man until he found him. This day, he was looking intently at a man in a red jacket walking the trail nearby. That is why he didn't notice the man next to him.

"Excuse me? Do you know the way to Baker Street?"

John looked over in the direction the voice came from.

"What for?"

The man replied, "I heard there was a flat for rent. Do you know where it is?"

John smiled then stood up.

"Yes. I can show you the way. I used to live there."

John and the man walked side by side towards the main road.

"Thank you very much," the man replied. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
